


Rules for a Functioning Alcoholic

by orphan_account



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, College AU, Copious Amounts Of Swearing, Hockey AU, Human AU, M/M, Sympathetic Deceit, and probably more - Freeform, but also he’s a functioning alcoholic, but because i wanted to write this quickly it ended sadly, but that could change in the future, but was So Much Fun To Write, deceit’s name is d, in conclusion this is sad and angsty, including but not limited to:, loceit is sort of background for now, minor self-depreciation/self-hatred, nausea/committing/sickness/concussions, so be warned for some Intense Shit, so yeah it’s a sad ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 21:43:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20982857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Fuck.Without Logan to distract him, every bit of the burning pain he’d been feeling comes rushing back.Fuck.Fuck.He can’t handle the pain in his chestFuck.He can’t handle Logan’s pain either. Not now, not with his own weighing so heavily on his mindFuck.Everything’s too much. He needs a drink.He knows—heknowshe had promised himself that he wouldn’t go down that road again, that he wouldn’t fall that far. But fuck it. What’s one drink, right?Logan tells D a secret. He doesn’t take it well. At all.





	Rules for a Functioning Alcoholic

**Author's Note:**

> important note: i will be finishing this, but am currently swamped with other things to do so i can’t give you a definite date that this will be done by
> 
> inspired by: [illogicallyinclined’s hockey au](https://illogicallyinclined.tumblr.com/post/188266134661/hockey-au-masterlist) (which is some Good Shit, check it out) on tumblr, a hc mentioned in the discord chat for said au about d being a functioning alcoholic, and the [video](https://youtu.be/M7ClYMuntU8) subsequently sent (look that up too, some more Good Shit right there)

Maybe D should tell more people his name, he thinks, drunk on the lightness he feels at having done so. He feels free, he feels happy, he feels wonderful, he feels in love.

Logan though… Logan is stunned. In a good way, D hopes, but he has no way to tell.

Then Logan slurs out, “You didn’t have to tell me. I didn’t— I shouldn’t have forced you to. I’m sorry.” And D’s chest physically aches. He shouldn’t have to apologize. D hates that he did with an intensity that he forgot he could feel, but he hates whoever made Logan feel like it was a necessity even more. 

“You didn’t _force_ me to do anything,” he snaps, regretting his tone only after Logan shrinks into his bed. His next words come out softer, like an apology of his own, “No one can force me to do anything. You know that, Lo.”

Logan’s eyes are dark and unfocused. Needless to say, he doesn’t look convinced in the least, so D figures his previous statement bears repeating. “I wanted to tell you my name, so I did,” D says. “No lies. No deceit. Not this time. I— I wanted you to know, Logan.”

Logan stares straight through him, and D stares right back. He curses whoever taught Logan that he needed to apologize for his very existence, curses whoever taught him he wasn’t worthy of love, or deserving of it, or whatever bullshit it was that he believed.

But finally, _finally,_ Logan seems to believe him. Maybe he’s grown tired, or maybe he can tell that D’s being genuine. Whatever the case, he falls back into his bed with a shuddering sigh that sounds frighteningly close to a sob. But he doesn’t cry, just goes completely silent. D honestly wonders if he’s fallen asleep.

But then. Then, he asks, “Can I— can I tell you a secret too?” His voice is brittle and his eyes are still closed. 

Whether he’s scared or just tired escapes D, but he replies anyway. “Of course. You can tell me anything, you know that, right?” He’s almost afraid of the answer.

And Logan hesitates. He hesitates, and D’s anxieties are confirmed. He hesitates, and D tries his hardest to convince himself that it doesn’t hurt. But he’s always been good at spotting lies—especially his own—and remains unconvinced. It does hurt.

“…I,” Logan starts, jerking D out of his reverie. He pauses, giving a breathy laugh before starting up again. “I listed Coach Sanders as my emergency contact because I knew he’d come if one of us was injured.” He opens his eyes, and to D’s horror, they’re blank. Lifeless, filled only with empty amusement. He feels his heart drop. 

“But it’s humorous,” Logan continues, heedless of D’s concern, “Because I know for a fact that Coach Sanders doesn’t even like me.”

And then D’s reeling. He doesn’t know what he expected, but… well, it wasn’t that. He wants to ask Logan where that came from. Thomas doesn’t hate Logan, because no one hates Logan. What evidence would suggest otherwise? He’s about to ask just that, but then Logan is talking again.

Once he’s started, there’s no stopping him. He relays how Coach Sanders snapped at him at practice, on the bench, at games. He tells D that he’d originally thought he was reading too far into it, thought that he was overreacting. Then he says that he heard Coach Sanders and Joan discussing him in the locker room after practice. They’d thought everyone had left, he reasoned. That’s why Coach Sanders had said that he didn’t belong there now, never had, and probably never would. He hadn’t meant to be malicious, Logan assures D. He hadn’t.

“He threatened to kick me off the team,” Logan adds as if it’s an afterthought. He thinks for a moment before letting out another laugh as D burns from the inside out. “He must be thrilled about the concussion. He got what he wanted, didn’t he?”

The burning in his chest won’t go away, and now D doesn’t know how to feel. He’s confused. Heartbroken. Furious. Everything hurts, and he can’t tell one emotion from the other. It’s all just a painful blur. 

He’d known Thomas hadn’t liked Remus when he’d first joined the team. Hell, he hadn’t liked D either. But Logan? Why— _how_ could he hate Logan? How could he say that about _Logan?_ That’s stupid. Complete bullshit. 

He tells Logan so, and his only reward is another curt laugh. This one causes him to curl in on himself, and his hands start pulling at his hair in a desperate bid to relieve the sudden pain. D’s chest burns more, but he ignores it. 

He begins to gently pry Logan’s fingers from his hair, smoothing it back from his face. He pulls up a chair, holding Logan’s hand in his as he murmurs, over and over, “I miss you. We _all_ miss you.” It seems to reassure him, as Logan slowly drifts off to sleep as D tells him, barely audible, “The team isn’t the same without you there.” But by then, Logan’s asleep. Even if he were awake though, it’s not as if he would have believed D. 

D leans back in the chair he’d pulled up, trying to breathe properly again. _Fuck._ Without Logan to distract him, every bit of the burning pain he’d been feeling comes rushing back. _Fuck._

_Fuck._ He can’t handle the pain in his chest. _Fuck._ He can’t handle Logan’s pain either. Not now, not with his own weighing so heavily on his mind. _Fuck._ Everything’s too much. He needs a drink.

He knows—he _knows_ he had promised himself that he wouldn’t go down that road again, that he wouldn’t fall that far. But fuck it. What’s one drink, right?

Checking again to make sure Logan’s really asleep, D stumbles into the kitchen of Logan and Virgil’s dorm. Surely, _surely,_ they have alcohol in here somewhere, he thinks, opening and closing cabinets at random, movements frenzied.

But so far, nothing. Nothing, that is, until he looks up. There’s one more row of cabinets, far out of his reach. The one row he hasn’t checked yet. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, knowing somehow that Virgil was to blame. 

_Joke’s on him though,_ he thinks as he easily hoists himself onto the counter. He’s desperate and good at climbing on things; nothing is going to stop him, especially not his height. 

Once the nearest handle’s in reach, he yanks it open. _Vodka. Thank god._

He pulls out the bottle and a plastic cup from one cabinet over. He pours some of the vodka into it, filling it to the brim. Lowering himself from his kneeling position, D sweeps his legs out from under him and turns, dangling them off the edge of the counter. He quickly downs two full cups, savoring the burn of it and the flavor of cheap liquor. It has been far too long.

It’s only when he’s halfway through his fourth cup that he notices that nearly half the bottle is gone. _Whoops._ He’s had too much here, he realizes with a sigh, and everything still hurts like hell. He fills his cup completely once more though before capping up the vodka and slipping it to the back of the cabinet. Tilting his head back, he finishes off the alcohol and pushes himself off of the counter. He passes by the trashcan and drops the cup in. If Virgil finds it… well, he’ll deal with the situation if it comes up. D can’t bring himself to care enough right now.

He does feel a little bit lighter, to his delight, despite the fact that he isn’t fully happy. He’ll have to get Remus to go with him to a bar later to achieve that, he muses. That’ll get him to feel more like himself. That’ll stop the burning in his chest.

Tossing a piece of minty gum into his mouth to hide the lingering scent of alcohol on his breath, D returns to Logan’s bed, taking up his vigil in the chair beside it once again. He glances at the alarm clock to his right before pulling out a textbook. He’ll be able to read at least one chapter in the fifteen minutes before Virgil gets back from class. It’s not like he’ll have a lot of time to spare tonight, after all.

🍸🍸🍸

“Remus!” D calls when he gets back to their shared apartment. He’s aware that he sounds mildly drunk, but… well, he doesn’t care. “Remus, get in here!”

“D?” That’s not Remus, D realizes with a pout. “How’s Logan?” Roman rounds the corner as he asks this, concern written all over his face. When is it not, these days? 

“He’s fine,” D says, waving off the question. He doesn’t want to think about it. “Where’s Remus?”

“He should be back from class soon,” Roman says, frowning. “Hey, are you okay? You look… weird.”

“Gee, thanks.” D rolls his eyes.

“No, I didn’t mean like that. I meant like…” he waves his arms around for an extended time, frown deepening. “_Weird,_” he finally concludes. “You know?”

“Can’t say I do, sorry,” D says, struggling to look less _weird._ “So yeah, I’m good. Just looking for Remus.”

“Alright.” Roman doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he doesn’t press it either. “Well, I’ll be around if you need me.”

“Noted,” D says, stretching himself out on the nearby couch and closing his eyes. The sun is really bright today.

🍸🍸🍸

D may have drifted off, he may have lost track of time, he may have just forgotten what happened between the time he’d laid down and the time when Remus decided to shake him out of his stupor, but whatever the case, he was awake now.

“Roman said you were looking for me?”

“Yeah,” D says, immediately sitting up. “Come to a bar with me tonight. I’m bored.”

Remus hesitates, perhaps thinking about what D had made him promise a few months back about not letting him drink without Logan or Virgil around. But the hesitation lasts less than a second, and Remus shrugs, a grin spreading across his face. “Why not?”

_He broke his promise,_ D thinks, but he doesn’t let the feeling of betrayal from that set in. It doesn’t matter anyway, he would have gone without Remus if he’d said no. _It doesn’t matter._

“Right,” D says, springing from the couch and matching Remus’s grin. “I’ll grab the ID’s, let’s go.”

🍸🍸🍸

The night is a blur, and D loves every second of it. He feels lighter than he has in _months,_ and he can’t get enough of it.

He thinks Remus may have gotten into a fight, but he doesn’t care. He’s downing shot after shot, flirting with the bartender, flirting with the man sitting next to him, getting one of them to pay his tab. He doesn’t remember who agreed to, only that someone had.

Then he’s dancing and laughing and smiling, and nothing could be better. He’s drunk on alcohol, sure, but he’s also drunk on the feeling that he’s dancing through life. He closes his eyes and a blissful smile spreads across his face. 

He opens his eyes, and he’s in his bed. When had he gotten there? He doesn’t remember walking home, but he must have. His alarm is ringing. He turns it off. The lightness is gone, and his head is spinning. He wants a drink. 

D sits up and is hit by a wave of nausea. How much had he had to drink last night? _Too much,_ the logical part of his brain thinks. 

_Not enough,_ the other part whispers. _Not enough,_ not if he can still think that he’s had too much. _Not enough,_ he decides, standing up. He sways in place for only a moment before he walks into the kitchen. 

Roman’s standing there, standing at the counter. He looks panicked. “Where’s Remus?” he asks. His words are too loud, too worried. Because Remus can’t be hurt, of course. That was just a fact of life. No need to worry about him. “You two were gone all last night, and you’re back, but he’s not. D, _where is he?_”

_Too loud,_ he thinks again. “Dunno. He didn’t come back with me.” At least, he probably didn’t, but D doesn’t need to say that. It will only make Roman louder, and Remus can’t be hurt. Roman shouldn’t worry so much. D shrugs, turning away and looking absentmindedly through the cabinets. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

“_How do you know that?_”

“Too loud,” D mutters under his breath. Why don’t they have alcohol? Did Remus get rid of it when D had told him to? _Fuck._

Realizing belatedly that Roman had asked a question, D turned and shrugged again. “I don’t.”

That didn’t seem to help matters, because Roman went into full-on freak out mode at that. “God, where could he— so stupid— fuck, what if he— what if he’s— damn you, Remus!”

“Shhhh.” D leans across the counter and puts his finger up to Roman’s lips. “When has he not come back? Never,” D says, answering his own question. “Why should this time be any different?”

“I— I mean, you’re right, but— what if he’s really hurt this time?” Roman still looks worried. Why does he still look worried? D had done such a good job of reassuring him. His argument had been airtight. 

Roman appears to agree, catching himself. “Fuck, I’m beginning to sound like Virgil. You’re right, he’s probably fine. He’ll turn up.”

“You bet he will!” D boops Roman’s nose, a smile on his face at the improvement the lack of loud has had on his headache. “Now, do you happen to know if we have any alcohol on hand?”

“Don’t think so,” Roman replies, already retreating back to his room. “I think Jared does though?”

“Mm, right. Thanks, Ro.” D goes back to his room as well, putting an outfit that he hopes looks like he at least attempted to make it coordinate. But even if it doesn’t, that’s fine. Nothing matters anyway and life is ultimately meaningless. 

He’s thinking too much again. He’s going to get a drink.

🍸🍸🍸

He went to Jared’s place, he thinks, because now he has a backpack full of alcohol bottles on the counter. “Thank you, Jared,” he says, clinking a plastic cup against one of the bottles in a drunk attempt at a toast before putting it in the back of a cabinet. He slips four more into various other nooks, still having enough sense him to make sure Remus won’t find them unless he’s looking. He takes the rest to his room, planning on having a day full of lightness and absolutely no classes. He’ll get the notes later, it won’t matter.

🍸🍸🍸

“D?”

“Mmph?”

“You coming to practice tonight? It starts in an hour.” Right. Practice. Thomas. _Fuck,_ he can still think. He’s too sober for this. But… 

“Sure,” he says, deciding that if Remus isn’t there to wreak havoc, and if Logan isn’t there to be… well, Logan, and if Thomas is going to continue to exist without apologizing to Logan, it’s basically D’s civic duty to make his life hell. 

It’s what he deserves.

🍸🍸🍸

_Match penalty._ This is what, his third one since— he doesn’t want to think about it. _Doesn’t matter._ It’s not like they were going to win anyway.

Virgil’s looking at him. What’s he thinking? Is he worried? Angry? D doesn’t know. _Doesn’t matter._ He skates off the ice and walks past the bench without a second glance. He hears Thomas say something, but he doesn’t know what. 

Then Joan’s hand is on his arm. They say, “D. We need to talk.”

D says, “No. We don’t.”

He turns and walks to the locker room. He has a penalty to serve, after all. 

But Joan follows him. “D.”

“What.” 

“What’s wrong?”

D scoffs. “What do you think is wrong?”

“Logan?”

D doesn’t say anything. Joan knows they’re right. 

“This isn’t just about Logan.”

“Well, why wouldn’t it be?” D sits down.

“You were still playing well before, even though Logan… wasn’t here.” Joan sits down beside him.

“And? Things change.”

“Then enlighten me. What did?” 

“This time? Nothing,” D snaps. He’s done with this. The game’s almost over, then he can go home. He still has some borrowed alcohol left, and he doesn’t have anything to do tomorrow. He’ll be fine after he can go home, but right now he’s dizzy and tired and _furious_ and burning from the inside out. 

“You’re lying,” Joan says. 

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“And you’re not going to tell me what’s wrong, are you?”

“What do you think?”

Joan nods and stands back up. “Coach wants to talk to you later.”

“I wish him luck.”

Joan shakes their head at him and leaves the locker room. D falls back onto the bench, laying across it. He’s tired. He wants a drink.

🍸🍸🍸

Thomas didn’t get a chance to talk to him after the game. He’d left as soon as he could. Then he’d had his drinks, but the alcohol in his room wasn’t enough, and he doesn’t want to wait for Remus.

He’s going to the bar now.

He blinks. When did he leave? _Doesn’t matter._ He’s here now, and everything’s better.

The world’s a blur of color and voices and music and alcohol, and D feels light again. Why had he been upset? Why has he ever been upset? _Doesn’t matter._

He’s flirting with the bartender again, flirting with the man next to him. One of them is paying his tab, though he doesn’t remember who. _Doesn’t matter._

He’s dancing and laughing and smiling, and everything is good. He closes his eyes, feeling like he’s flying.

He opens his eyes, and he feels like hell. Everything is hell. He reaches for the bottle on his nightstand and pours himself a glass. He sits up and gulps it down. Slightly better. He swings his legs out of bed. Checks his phone. Thomas texted him. He wants to talk.

D ignores it, leaves him on read. If he wants to talk, he should apologize. D can’t remember what Thomas did wrong, but he knows he hates him for it. He should apologize.

With a sigh, he stands. He’s so tired. He pours himself another cup, drinks that too. The buzz it gives him makes him feel alive again. Good. 

He walks out to the kitchen. Virgil’s there. Should he be worried? Virgil isn’t usually here, he doesn’t think. “Hi, Virgil,” he says anyway.

“D,” Virgil replies with a nod. “Just stopping by to remind you that you have to come over and watch Logan today, seeing as you keep forgetting.” He sounds upset. Why? 

“Logan?” he asks. He feels like the name should ring a bell. Joan had mentioned Logan yesterday, he knows that. He himself had known who Logan was at one point, he knows that too. When did he forget?

“Yeah, Logan,” Virgil says slowly. “You know. Your boyfriend, the one with the concussion?”

D tilts his head. “I have a boyfriend?”

Virgil laughs incredulously. “Not funny, D.”

“I’m not joking,” D replies simply. “Who’s Logan?”

**Author's Note:**

> comments give me life, so please 🥺
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ratherstareyed) || [tumblr](ratherstarryeyed.tumblr.com) || [tumblr post](https://ratherstarryeyed.tumblr.com/post/188289619542/rules-for-a-functioning-alcoholic-memories-you)


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